Poems on Several Occasions To which is added Gondibert and Birtha, A Tragedy. By William Thompson |
1. |
THE DESPAIRING MAIDEN. |
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Poems on Several Occasions | ||
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THE DESPAIRING MAIDEN.
I
Within an unfrequented GroveAs late I laid alone,
A tender Maid in deep Distress,
At Distance, made her Moan.
II
She cropt the blue-ey'd Violet,Bedew'd with many a Tear;
And ever and anon her Sighs
Stole sadly on my Ear.
III
“Ah faithless Man! how cou'd he leaveSo fond and true a Maid?
Can so much Innocence and Truth
Deserve to be betray'd?
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IV
Alass, my Mother (if the DeadCan hear their Children groan.)
What ills your helpless Orphan feels,
To Sorrow left alone!
V
To Sorrow left by Him I lov'd;Ah perjur'd and ingrate!—
Ye Virgins, learn the Wiles of Men,
And learn to shun my Fate.
VI
For whom do I these Flourets crop,For whom this Chaplet twine?
Say, shall they glow on Damon's Brow,
Or fade away on mine?
VII
But He the blooming Wreath will scorn,Who scorn'd my Virgin-bloom:
And me—alass! they suit not me,
Unless to deck my Tomb.
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VIII
How oft the dear perfidious YouthInvok'd each Pow'r above!
How oft He languish'd at my Feet,
And vow'd eternal Love!
IX
How sweet the Minutes danc'd away,All melted in Delight!
With Him each Summer-Day was short,
And short each Winter-Night.
X
'Twas more than Bliss I felt:—and nowAlass! 'tis more than pain.—
Ye soft, ye rosy Hours of Love,
Return—return again.
XI
Ah no.—Let Blackness shade the Night,When first He breath'd his Vows:
The Scene of Pleasure then—but, ah!
The Source of all my Woes.
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XII
How cou'd I think so sweet a TongueCou'd e'er consent to lye?—
'Twas easy to deceive a Maid
So soft and young as I.
XIII
And yet He lays the Fault on me,(Where none cou'd e're be laid,
Unless my loving Him too well.)
And calls me perjur'd Maid.
XIV
The Nymphs, who envious saw my Charms,Rejoice to see my Woe,
And taunting cry, “why did you leave
The Youth that lov'd you so?”
XV
But oh believe me, lovely Youth,Far dearer than my Eye,
I love you still, and still will love,
Till oh, for you, I dye!
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XVI
Ev'n tho' you hate, I doat to Death;My Death my Truth shall prove.
My latest Pray'rs are Pray'rs for You,
And Sighs are Sighs of Love.”
XVII
She ceas'd:—(while Pity from the CloudsDissolv'd in silent Show'rs:—)
Then faintly “Damon!” cry'd:—and breath'd
Her Soul amid the Flow'rs.
Poems on Several Occasions | ||